Todd Colby's Glee Farm

Wednesday, July 31, 2013

Free

Pierrot le Fou

Monday, July 29, 2013

Post Title

I could hastily name what worries me most
like lounging on a boat made of minerals
would disguise me from the waves on the water.
My throat is laid bare by the feathers of the phantom
heap. Decidedly modern, and voraciously unkempt,
I waddle into the breeze facing sternward.
The crisp craft of my volition evolves in chunks
as the miles drip by. My nautical excursion is so
limited by the distance inherent in the vastness
of the sea. I want always and only to be near people
but I can't stand them, their voices milky and wan.
If sound had a color, I'd be coated in its thick, resinous pigment.
I could be holding a National Geographic
under my good arm as I coax the breeze into plaintive theme music.
So, chaos is a feeling, it is the most fun I've
had yet. I'm speaking without the aid of autotune,
and then the mist clears.

Saturday, July 27, 2013

Total Worth

From dawn until now
the light has changed
and the hum of the city
has broadened its scope,
making the neighborhood
rounder and more scrupulous.
Also worth noting: a view
of the pounding is appropriately
stunning to the lilt of bummers
and thrill seekers.
As the day continues to bloom
and decline into midday,
I'd like nothing better
than to move with a sense
of mystery and grace, while lurking
near the outliers with all their cabbage
and mace. In the meantime, I'll savor
the crevasse by wedging myself snuggly
between grandma and ecstasy.

Friday, July 26, 2013

Out Here

Somewhere between the lip of the river
and the tall dry grass, I plunge into the sky
as though diving upwards took little effort,
and were a daily occurrence in my mild life.
In the wild blue yonder no one can make mistakes,
and space junk floating in the atmosphere is great
material for collages that blow your
mind with how amazing they appear in the
glittering twilight. As I float above your
city, I broadcast dorky joy and advertise
a message of delight in this most ripe
part of summer. Take me to your leader.

Tuesday, July 23, 2013

Scary Movie #4 (WTF/I'm Sorry)

Roland Kirk with McCoy Tyner & Stanley Clarke 1975

Electric Blanket

Once, I knew how to speak French
which made me peculiar and demanding.
I would think of nouns and then the thing
itself would appear, in French. A pale
hue of yellow light was cast on everything.
I bumped into things, scattered debris
on the floor, made collages and left
paper snippings on the desk. Now that the
theater of summer has made all the words
shrivel, I can maximize my experience
of the city with candles and room spray.
Scented to customize "Beach House" or
"Steel Shed." I'll walk to work allowing only for
the grip of humidity which is really only
an electric blanket wrapped around my body.

Monday, July 22, 2013

For Instant

A hot shower boils over
the bacteria river, making the birds
blue from lack of oxygen. Sweat stains
on the plastic chair. Wet computer.
The highway rumbles on in a very punk way.
Drink a purple smoothie at dawn. Step
on a crack to determine amplitude.
Outside, people are doing strange things.

Saturday, July 20, 2013

Brooklyn Bridge Park

Friday, July 19, 2013

Happy Heat Wave

Thursday, July 18, 2013

I love you too very much

I always arrive at something
by neglecting it. Warm ooze of flesh,
a pillow makes for a soft landing. Later. Meaning:
I'll head over to your place later. If a city could have a fever,
New York City would be in the hospital today.
People are twitching from the heat on Henry Street.
I love you too very much.

Moon Duo - High Over Blue

Glad to See Me?

I float in the swelter, lap water
from the air and get inside
the heads of people on the F train.
That sun causes blisters on people's shoulders, it causes
frost heaves to rise under ice, softer than those soft cookies.
All in all, not a bad beginning, in fact,
the light is preserving my view of you enough to
leave traces of your nose in that dollop of whipped cream
sinking into my coffee. I don't even use whipped cream.
Drink from a ladle to appear fascinating
and old-fashioned. Pretend to talk on the phone
when you're alone in public. Walk with your hands
in your pockets, or are you just glad to see me?

Tuesday, July 16, 2013

Watch out for trains

Monday, July 15, 2013

The Real Reason I Called (Written with Joanna Penn Cooper)

I have a gripe to pick a bone with you
and air out a grievance plain as the nose
on your face. You see, when you said
you never wanted to speak again I took
it that you were having problems with your tongue,
that it had been lopped off perhaps and you
had no way to tell me other than with your silence.
It's like that myth of the woman and the tree
or the man and the rock or the woman with
the snake hair or the brother that kills his very
own brother. In short, I figured you could use
my help so I covered your doorway with rich blue
silk bunting to assure the neighbors that you were
okay with my leaving. There's a thing called keening,
a thing called rending of garments, a custom known
as the covering of mirrors. There is a right way to
do these things, and this is why I called: I'd rather have
you here or there than not here at all.

Saturday, July 13, 2013

King of Brooklyn

Surely, the racket thunders on.
Muted only by the nodding of my bejeweled
head as I drift to sleep near the steamy
pond in Prospect Park. Antelopes are brought
to the great lawn and left there to play
amid the toddlers and the cops. Purple candy
is strewn on the sidewalk, but I can't
have any because I have the sugars. In the
morning, a medallion of sun rises over
the borough of churches and lobs honey light
on the brownstones. Walk into any store and feel
at ease among the swift and dutiful cashiers.
Smiling faces have been reinforced with duct tape.
Nothing is disgraceful, everything is raw
and charming; allowing for the luxurious blare
of bird songs over the roar of traffic.
At the end of the day, everyone is fucked in, folded down,
and seriously contented with the swell of dusk.

Friday, July 12, 2013

New Practice

Seasons are rarely dainty,
in fact, they're often
brutally formal, divided
into seasons that assault the senses
with alarming polarities.
Architecture is always more interesting
than being far from home. A big front
means there is a big back. It's hard
to concentrate on things that don't
move around much. Little
sheets of skin peel from
my sunburned arms.
If the midsummer cloak
of this dense humidity lingers
any longer, I shall revert to an ice bath
as remedy, or to sending you something
that smells like it doesn't.

Thursday, July 11, 2013

The Weather

If one were to swim in today's weather,
one would be backstroking down Court Street,
apple in mouth, silver spandex riding up
to the crotch, a matte black helmet strapped
to the head. Some folks are sealed from the splash
of the day by cellophane wrap, which gets hot but
provides a certain gloomy protection from the chaos.
Lastly, let us not forget the caffeinated worm that churns
in the gut enough to provide an impulse for the poem.
I'd like to thank you for stopping by.

Saturday, July 06, 2013

Sports Car in a Pool

Morning makes perfect sense here
from the safety of a chair
pulled up to a table surrounded
by a screened in porch. Fact:
the sound of a bird chirping sounds a lot
like someone trying to whistle
through a cellophane mask. If that same
someone were to drive a tiny
1970's sportscar into a pool,
the car would float just long
enough for that person to whistle
a quick bird sound from the driver's seat
before the sinking would set in,
and the subsequent consequences would have
to be met. I guess that's
what age teaches us: consequences,
which both liberates us from
impulsivity, and chains us to a drab
routine that prohibits chirping from a sports car
as it sinks in a pool. In other news: the morning
has brightened a bit with a peculiarly
sharp, almost lemony light surging
from the crest of that delightfully
green mountain. Which is to say,
it is dawn, and the world is gurgling
with all sorts of life just waiting
to be hemmed in by consequences.

Friday, July 05, 2013

Vermont Poem

The color green here has been especially engineered
to deepen the density of the forest,
making it look both authentic and vast. Notice also
the many birds making high wondrous sounds that
are masterful imitations of the human voice
raised in song. A babbling brook sounds so real
it could be a recording piped in from speakers
under the porch. If you see a bear,
it's probably just some dude in a bear suit
trying to freak you out.

Wednesday, July 03, 2013

Drunken Boat: Balloon Song (w/viola) 1995

Monday, July 01, 2013

Summer Tale

It starts as a flash out of the corner of your eye. You smell burnt toast. When you come to, a mist has covered the lake. You want to tell someone on the phone where you've collapsed, but you can't. You sound like an animal trying to eat and moan at the same time. A slug has crept into your mouth and is slithering down your throat toward your heart.

About Me

Todd Colby, poet and artist, is the author of six books of poetry, including Tremble and Shine (Soft Skull Press, 2004), Riot in the Charm Factory: New and Selected Poems (Soft Skull Press, 2003), Flushing Meadows (Scary Topiary Press, 2013) and Splash State (The Song Cave, 2014).